The Sherlexicon
by Ralspudzinmoose
Summary: 100 ficlets based on words from a random word generator. Not in numerical order. Latest: "Conventionally speaking, he's not actually handsome. Molly can see that now that she's got him on the slab. "
1. 53: Obedience

53: Obedience

"There isn't time for this! We'll do it later!"

Sherlock is pacing in frustration to and fro across Lestrade's office, dripping.

"You are bleeding," John replies, enunciating each word in the hope the fact will sink through. "We're not going anywhere until that's stitched." He's pulling on latex gloves and rummaging for saline wound wash in the police first aid kit.

"He's right, mate. Come on, be reasonable." Lestrade tosses his opinion in uninvited, and Sherlock glares more ferociously. He almost acquiesces but Donovan sticks her oar in as well, and he revolts on principle.

"And you wonder why I believe you are all idiots?" Sherlock snaps, "This is a waste of time- you'll let him slip away."

John calmly threads a suture needle and advances on him.

"He won't get that far ahead. Sit down."

Sherlock throws them all a withering look that indicates you could probably cut him in half and find in bold capitals "**NO"** running through him like Brighton rock.

"_Sit."_

John doesn't shout. He doesn't raise his voice, he doesn't change his expression, but the steel in it is suddenly there. To everyone's surprise, including Sherlock's, Sherlock sits.

So does Donovan, which is probably the only reason Sherlock lives it down.


	2. 95: Dentilabial

95: dentilabial

"Fffffff-dragh! God-D- mmmm-tch! OW!"

John hobbles about rubbing his foot where he's just stubbed it against the corner of the trunk.

"There's a trunk there," Sherlock informs him from where he is supine on the couch, eyes shut and fingers steepled against his philtrum. "Why didn't you just say 'fuck'?"

"What?"

Sherlock opens one eye and looks him up and down. "Oh. You got another one."

"Another one what? What's this trunk for?"

"Girlfriend. Case." Sherlock is evidently in an 'efficient conversation only' kind of mood. He points at first John and then the trunk as he speaks.

"No, as a matter of fact. We had one date," John huffs, dropping into the armchair and flexing his bruised toes.

"You curbed your profanities in your own house, so she must be of more interest to you than that. "

John glowers. "Maybe I just want to stop swearing."

"You don't. Swearing relaxes you- 'ffffff' and 'mmm' alone did not, as evidenced by the fact you are angry with me for no good reason."

"Leaving junk in the doorway is a good reason to be angry with you. What's in this anyway?"

Sherlock has closed his eyes again, clearly considering John's lack of deduction trying, and his mind palace far more interesting. John pokes at the trunk. Unbuckles it. Opens it.

A hand lacking fingernails flops out.

"Oh Jesus- Fuck!"

"There," Sherlock says, hiding a smirk behind his fingers, "Isn't that better?"


	3. 67: Ice-Skate

Sherlock doesn't see the point of ice-skating. Strap little blades to your feet and go round and round in circles? Him? Obviously not.

On the other hand, somewhere in the mess of people spiralling on the white oval in the middle of Hyde Park is a murderer. He needs to get close enough to identify them.

"Ready?" John stands up, weirdly taller and wobbles a little on his skates. They make him waddle a bit when he tries to walk, like he's done something unfortunate in his trousers and is trying not to let people know. Sherlock eyes his own skates with dubitation. They are of the cheap mass-produced kind. All hard around his ankles and squashing his toes a bit.

Also the spotty teen that took his Oxfords slung them in the shoebox. They could be scuffed. Someone might steal them and he'd have to do a soggy trouser waddle until he could get a taxi.

"It's just like rollerblading," John says and then remembers whom he's talking to. "I mean- it's easy. Just keep your toes in and do this-" he demonstrates with his hands. Sherlock watches them, the way John holds his palms open and curves his fingers to show the arc of the blades on the ice.

"I know. Stop blithering," he replies haughtily, tightening his scarf. He will not fall. He will NOT embarrass himself. Not in public. Not on a case. John chucks his chin, which is John-ese for rolling his eyes, and moves towards the rink.

"Of course, silly me."

Sherlock stands. Thus far, so good.

The skates are clumpy and inelegant on his feet. He can't flex properly. Who invented this ridiculous idea anyway? He's suddenly made aware of his tallness and the length of his limbs. Sherlock feels like an overgrown sunflower in too small a pot. John clomps ahead of him, in a suspiciously good humour- gleeful even. This perturbs Sherlock more than he is willing to admit.

John steps onto the rink and is transformed. Balance magically corrected by the slick surface of the ice, he slips forward a few paces, then circumscribes a neat arc as he turns around, effortlessly graceful, to face Sherlock.

"Come on, slow poke."

Well, it looks easy. Sherlock makes a few keen observations. The angles of John's feet, his body, his own weight and how he should apply pressure on the blade. He steps onto the ice where his feet immediately part company with such unexpected swiftness, Sherlock is obliged to make a frantic grab at the wall. John, ever kind and sympathetic, breaks into a laugh that threatens to unbalance him as well.

Sherlock glares at him, wounded and tries to _compel_ his legs to co-operate.

John is reminded strongly of a baby giraffe taking it's first steps. Alright, maybe he's enjoying this a little too much, but how often does he discover he can do something that Sherlock, Mr. Know it all, is categorically rubbish at.

"Ok, Ok, just- you take it slow and I'll have a look round? Alright?" John says, somewhat devilishly cheerful. This is a tiny revenge for always having to buy the milk. He whizzes off, showing off, weaving in and out of the other skaters with ease. Sherlock, despite himself, is a little impressed. John is not a man to whom the adjectives 'elegant' or 'graceful' are easily applied. With a gun? Proficient, practiced, dexterous. All of those, but elegance and grace require a certain nod towards dance.

Sherlock has seen John dance. While he's not quite up to date on the latest trends, he's fairly sure John's dancing went out of date at the turn of the millennium.

On ice, however, John skims like a summer swallow over the water.

Fascinating.

Beautifully free.

He returns after a lap or two, a little repentant (but not too much), to find Sherlock managing to be upright, but still stuck firmly next to the entrance.

"I didn't see anyone who might be him," John reports, his cheeks brushed with pink from the cold and the skating. "You ok?"

"Perfect," Sherlock sniffs ambiguously, pride still bruised. _Stop it_ he thinks Johnwards. _Stop being so provoking. _

John, typically, ignores such sensible mental commands. Instead he gives a chuckle that wraiths into the freezing air and hangs between them, and holds out an arm. "Come on."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "Oh but people will talk," he says, his tone equally arch. John snorts. "My _shoulders_ you berk, not my hand. Hang on to my shoulders and I'll help you skate."

They make slow progress, but it's easier than clinging to the wall. Sherlock begins to get the hang of it- he's a quick learner after all. He keeps one eye on the crowd, and one on his feet. Metaphorically speaking. In reality he needs both for both jobs and a third pair dedicated to watching the back of John's head. His neck. His feet. All the John bits in between.

In the corner of his eye he spots a lapel with a stain on it and jerks in its direction, resulting in a wobble, which nearly tips him on his arse. John reaches up and grabs both his hands to steady him,

"There! He's here!"

"Good, good- straight legs!" John said, more interested in not falling. Sherlock lurches forward, and his chest bumps square against John's back.

"Dark blue puffed jacket, black knitted cap with a peak. Wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt underneath."

John scans the crowd. "Got him." There is a pause, which extends into a short silence.

"Sherlock, if you want me to _get_ him, you'll need to let go."

Another pause.

"Put you by the wall first?"

"Yes," Sherlock is forced to admit, "I think that would be prudent.


	4. 09: Starchy

**9: Starchy**

It's a horrible wet night- cold, unsympathetic rain of the sort that seems light enough to not bother with an umbrella, but seeps through to the skin all too soon.

John scrubs at his head with an already damp towel and emits a rather unbecoming whimper of gratitude when Mrs. Hudson appears with chips.

"You are an angel, Mrs. Hudson. A saint!" He's already got his fingers stuck in the wrapper, like an eager child at Christmas.

It's fried potato with an excess of sodium chloride and acetic acid sloshed all over it. It is hardly worthy of rapture equal to the second coming of Christ. John continues, nevertheless.

"Mmm, marvellous." John smacks his lips and licks salt off of his thumb. Remarkable, Sherlock thinks, how his mood can be improved so easily. He should remember this next time he needs to store body parts in the fridge. Mrs. Hudson twitters around, pleased, making sure the fire is going nice and hot for them and putting the kettle on. John peels off sodden socks and dumps them in the bath, carting around his packet of chips like it's a baby.

He catches Sherlock eying the packet on his return.

"Nope, don't care tonight. Tonight, I had to jump in a pond for your case, so bugger off and get your own chips, or don't eat. Don't care." His tone, however, is a lot more good-natured than his words.

"There's chicken nuggets if you want, Sherlock, love," Mrs. Hudson says from the kitchen. She swats John's head lovingly, and then gives him a cup of tea and picks up Sherlock's towel off of the floor.

"Don't leave it there, it'll mark the wood, dear," she chides.

Sherlock makes it his duty to steal as many of John's chips as he can.

On principle.


	5. 02: Noise

There was no beach, just a blunt five-foot drop to the lake.

The soil was slick from the rain and the water, a sticky grey clay that clung to John's shoes as he traversed the path that ran along the shore- so much so that he was obliged at intervals to stop and scrape it off or risk slipping. He should have worn studs. It was a disgustingly cold and wet summer, and he had it to himself here way up in the middle of nowhere.

After the crowds and the heat and the dryness and the human stink of the desert camp, it made a good antithesis.

He jogged on, taking advantage of the break in the weather to take a lap around the lake, despite the ungodly early hour of the morning.

Harry called it ungodly anyway, but she was bitter about everything and nothing in particular now she was cut high and dry. To John it was as good as church. Never a religious man- more of a habitual blasphemer- he nonetheless had a deep-seated sense of there being something spiritual in the world. Certainly here, under the long rows of ash trees with their overarching boughs and the flit and shimmer of light through the green made him feel like he was passing through somewhere a little sacred. Perhaps here, rather than a stone hall with a preacher, was a place a god might be willing to listen to a man.

Although, if there was one, he'd been willing to listen to a dying man in the dirt and the blood and the heat too.

John reached the head of the lake in good time, where the land rose up even further from the surface of the water, finishing with a jut of land that invaded inwards, making a nice point at which to stop and survey the land. He could barely see the cottage from here, hidden as it was in a nook of trees on the far end. There was however, just visible, a sliver of white between the pines which was probably the outhouse. It was so quiet. The mountains around- ancient round-headed British mountains- seemed to keep the valley fenced in and lock out of the modern world.

It had been more than 25 years since he'd last been here, but it seemed almost completely unchanged. He took a seat, stretching out his legs and relaxing. Not the best idea in the middle of a jog, but to continue would be to hurry back to Harry and her black-cloud moods, and he didn't want to deal with it when the sun was out. She was trying, but it was a big thing to try against, and she didn't always have the strength.

The sun was just broaching its head over the ridge of the eastern mountains behind him, pushing back the bruise-coloured clouds. Light moved slow here; creeping it's way into the valley from the west- the side John had come up-lake on, and was just now beginning to touch the south side of the lake. It would take longer to reach the head here on the east side, perhaps not till midday. It was peculiar to sit here in what felt like the pre-dawn and look across a space of perhaps a few miles and see morning. Even the birds here were tardy in their singing.

A fish jumped in the lake somewhere unseen below him, making a muted _plaf_. It was well populated, clearly, as before long another one took a leap and then several small sprats performed a skipping feat of acrobatics across the surface. Pike, John recalled. Must be hunting up breakfast.

He was getting a little peckish himself.

He stretched again, wondering if Harry would be amenable to trying fishing. She might as well sulk on the lakeside as sulk in the house, or perhaps making her row would be a decent distraction. She'd enjoyed it when they had been kids.

He stood up and then paused. A sound, not very loud and somewhat distant, had caught his ear. A hum. A smooth, deep voice humming a tune, which seemed… didn't he know it?

John looked across the shoreline but could spot no one. It could be coming from the wooded area, he supposed, but it didn't seem like it could carry so far so clearly- below him then?

He approached the edge cautiously, not quite trusting the crumbling lip of clay, although it was more solid here than other places. Either way he didn't fancy a tumble into the cold water. He peered over, anticipating some camper or fisherman somehow tucked up on the rocks around the promontory, but nothing.

The humming, still naggingly familiar, drifted up from below. It was a good voice- quite melodious and smooth. "Hello?" John called down, and at once regretted it, for the voice cut off at once.

Silence loomed large. "Hello?" John ventured again, but there was no reply.

He trailed the path around the east side of the lake, following the route of his jog only now looking aside all the time to see if he could spot the person he'd heard.

The lake remained still, and empty and secretly silent.


	6. 98: Open-handed

**98: Open-handed**

"John, don't sulk. It's tedious."

John pauses halfway through stomping up the stairs to the flat and rounds on Sherlock. "Sulking? No. Sulking is what you do when I won't let you steal body parts from the morge. Sulking is what YOU do when I make you engage in basic human interaction. You are the sodding king of sulk. I? What I am is _pissed off_."

Sherlock scowls at him. "Fine."

"Good," John fires back, his shoulders rising and falling as he gives a huff of displeasure. "Arse."

Sherlock sneers. "Such a way with the English language. It's no wonder you are a writer. Are you done?"

"Don't." John is angry, not merely annoyed. The muscles around his eyes and jaw are tensed and his cheeks have gone curiously pale. Even without touching him, Sherlock can tell that his pulse is elevated- he can see it in his neck. It's a little surprising.

"Is this about-"

"Yes. Yes it is exactly about that."

Sherlock eyes him, scrutinises John from head to toe in a matter of seconds, and with an insouciance that angers John even further. "I scared you."

John advances down the stairs until he's only two above Sherlock. Keeping the height advantage. _Typical attempt to display male dominance,_ Sherlock thinks automatically.

"Do you- Do you even –care- what I feel?" John has one hand raised, forefinger digging into his thumb like he's trying to stop himself from jabbing Sherlock in the chest.

"It was an effective ploy that resulted in the arrest of the suspect, stop being so _sentimental_ about it."

"_I thought you'd been shot!" _He'd thought Sherlock had been killed. He'd thought about blood on the pavement and putting his best friend in a box.

Sherlock pauses. Then he says, "Oh." Caring is not meant to be an advantage but it seems to make life with John somehow smoother. He wonders about that.

They are close now- so close that Sherlock can see the pores of John's skin and feel the tickle of his upset breathing against his cheek. John stares him down, a crack forming across his expression, but what's under the anger confuses Sherlock. He can't quite read it. John moves, his body reacting before his brain does, reaching out almost as if on autopilot. The movement is somewhat clumsy, somewhat harder than John might have intended if he were thinking straight, but right now John isn't thinking at all.

Moments later Sherlock blinks and pulls back, bumping into the wall. He genuinely hadn't expected that. He puts a hand up to touch the spot where John has made contact. John looks a bit surprised with himself as well, but also sort of pleased.

"You slapped me!" Sherlock says, somewhat offended and somewhat plaintive.

"I'll fucking do it again if you pull a stunt like that one more time," John promises. His mood has shifted from all consuming anger, to something more dangerously playful.

"You slapped me!" Sherlock repeats, incredulously. "What are you, a woman?"

John's expression snaps shut like a trap, swiftly followed by his fingers, which whip out to land Sherlock a solid punch to the jaw. Sherlock gives an 'oof', crashes into the wall and then his heels slip on the lip of the stair and he's falling. In the split second where he's wind milling, he manages to dig his fingers into John's collar like claws.

John goes down with him willingly enough and they brawl and tumble to the foot of the stairs like half wild teenagers. It's probably just as well that Mrs. Hudson is out. The banisters snap against their combined weight like brittle bones.

Sherlock growls low and kicks as they grapple in the narrow hallway. John emits a harsh, pardine cough when Sherlock manages to lodge a bony elbow in his ribs, and then Sherlock gives an unexpected bellow when John resorts to dirty tactics.

They fall apart panting. John crouches on the bottom step clutching his side, one hand with a few long dark curls caught around it still. Sherlock remains sprawled on the floor, trying to decide which part of his anatomy hurts the most. He groans. "Learnt that from Harry?"

"No one expects it," John confirms darkly. There is a long, long reflective pause until Sherlock wonders aloud:

"Why did you lick your finger and stick it in my ear?"

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was singularly unpleasant."

"That's why, then," John says and then can't help a breathy little laugh like he can't quite believe himself.

"It's good," Sherlock replies, unable to resist a bit of a smile himself. "Distracting. I'll have to try it."

John puts a hand to his face, chuckling. He can foresee… incidents.

"Lestrade isn't going to forgive me for teaching you about wet willies."

Sherlock sits up, "What?"

"That's what it's called. A 'wet willy'."

"How repulsive." Sherlock sounds faintly impressed. John exhales, the humour dying down and looks at him wearily. "Don't do it again." Sherlock intuitively understands what he means.

"Fine. It IS effective though."

"Just don't."

Sherlock breathes, the bruise on his cheek blooming. John feels a little bit repentant. He holds out a hand, palm up. "Come on. Before Mrs. Hudson comes in and finds us."

Sherlock puts his hand in John's and, as always, finds himself being pulled up.


	7. 08: Acropodial

**08: Acropodium**

**(The entire upper surface of the foot)**

"Where's Lestrade?"

Donovan's hand catches Sherlock's arm in a vice-like grip. He blinks at her in owlish offense and surprise at being questioned and, exasperated, she repeats herself, this time at John.

"John, where's the boss? He's not answering his radio."

"He was-" John stands up a little straighter, thinking. He glances around the busy mob of police and flashing lights, but he can't see Lestrade in the crowd either. His absence is a noticeable hole all of a sudden. "Shit."

Donovan's eyes widen. She grabs her radio and snaps into it. "DI Lestrade is still inside, I repeat, DI Lestrade is still inside the building." She glances again at John's face and shakily adds, "Prep medical assistance. I'm going back in."

John can see the effect of her words across the crowd. It's like a hiccup. "Donovan, wait," he says as she ricochets off back towards the factory.

"You're not police!"

"I'm a doctor," John offers. She hesitates and then nods and barks at Sherlock. "Where?" She's assumed he's tagging along as a matter of course. No point even arguing that.

Sherlock for once demurs without quibble. "Back left workshop. Turn right from the entrance, second door left, follow the hall, then it's the first right before the stairs."

Sally takes off at a run, John on her heels and Sherlock following at a lope. Their torches make erratic bright spots on the walls in the gloomy interior of the old works. The shooter's already been apprehended, so at least there's no chance of being shot, but there are still hazards. Dodgy old floorboards and dirty rusting metal for starters. There are unexpected pits to fall in and piles of machinery to bump into or dislodge and be squashed by. Donovan hardly pays any of it a blind bit of attention.

"Hey, over here!"

There's a feeble beam of light waggling about at the far end of the hall, and they find Lestrade there grimacing and leaning heavily on the wall, but at least not shot.

"Alright, Boss?" Donovan asks, skidding to a halt and assuming a sarcastically fond kind of nonchalance. Lestrade gives a roguish grin. "Busted my foot."

John flicks his torch down to see. There's a foul dark smear across the white of Lestrade's right trainer. Rust or blood, it's hard to tell. He's not putting any weight on it.

"What happened?"

"Was chasing the bastard and he knocked down a pile of scrap on me. Didn't quite dodge fast enough. Dropped my radio," Lestrade adds, apologetically. Sherlock wordlessly ducks in and relieves the wall of the task of keeping Lestrade upright. An expression crosses Sally's face that's a weird mix of gratitude, annoyance and puzzlement. She takes Lestrade's other arm over her shoulder, and together they hobble him out of the factory.

John leads the way to hold the doors and he has to constantly resist the temptation to look back because Sally Donovan and Sherlock Holmes co-operating on anything makes for quite a picture, and Sherlock clearly wants to point out that John is stronger than Sally, and Sally clearly is feeling a bit weird about her arm touching Sherlock's across Lestrade's back.

By the time they've got him out onto the steps, Lestrade's bravado is fading and he's gritting his teeth. Sally looks about impatiently but there's no sign of the ambulance yet, just a PC with a first-aid kit. John takes it from him.

"Sit," John instructs and sets to work. Sally hovers, and Sherlock, apparently feeling his human duty done for the present, slopes off to make sure whatever idiot is taking the report is doing so correctly.

Lestrade's foot has ballooned. John frowns.

"Donovan, I need someone down there giving orders," Lestrade says, nodding towards the huddle of police cars. Sally opens her mouth to protest but then nods. "Right. You two behave then," she adds and heads off reluctantly to dispatch some authority.

"How bad?" Lestrade asks once she's gone.

"Not… good," John offers, "It's broken in a few places. I'd say you're probably going to need surgery, Greg."

Lestrade swears. "Painkillers?" he pleads.

"Not until the ambulance gets here," John says firmly, working at delicately cutting through and loosening the laces on Lestrade's shoe just enough to relieve the pressure of the swelling, but not enough to disturb the breaks.

"Bastard. Thought we were friends."

John grins a bit.

"Thought that truce wouldn't last long," Lestrade says, looking over John's head. John glances back and sees Sally and Sherlock haranguing each other.

"Miracle it happened at all," John agrees. Lestrade shrugs one shoulder. Conversation helps to distract him from the pain.

"He's improved. Not saying he's nicer or anything, but he's got more… self-restraint. "

"And Donovan?" John asks, feeling a bit prickly and defensive on the subject. Lestrade raises his eyebrows and gives John a look that sends a creepy, unexpectedly guilty feeling down John's spine.

"Bit more professional nowadays," Lestrade says. "But if you ask me, she was always at less fault. Always need a few like her around on the force."

John ducks his head and inspects the foot to try and disguise his doubt on that matter.

"Not saying she's a perfect human being, but she's got the morals and the balls to kick out when a kicking's needed and keeps us more honest than we'd be otherwise. And she takes more shit from the lads than she really deserves."

Not feeling especially an expert on the merits of Sergeant Donovan, John decides it's probably best to keep his mouth shut on the matter. "Try and keep still."

"I can't, it hurts," Lestrade hisses through his teeth as John feels gently up his shinbone. Badly bruised but intact, he decides. He tells Lestrade as much, who takes the news with a smile that gets twisted from the pain, and then John stands as Sherlock comes swooping back.

"Ambulance," Sherlock reports, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He moves aside as the paramedics hustle up with a stretcher, and Lestrade is prodded, strapped and carted off. John passes over the DI with a promise to drop by in the morning, and a second to drag Sherlock to NSY afterwards to help with the paperwork. They watch the ambulance depart and then turn their backs on the crime scene.

"That wasn't a standard ambulance," John says after they've left the blinking lights in the distance. "That was a private one."

"Was it?" Sherlock replies, "I feel like Thai."

"You texted Mycroft."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says and stalks off, taking advantage of his longer legs to leave John a couple of paces behind him. John regards him with a kind of warm glow. Lestrade is right- he's not nicer, exactly, but Sherlock's improved. Sometimes with all the little daily aggravations, John forgets that. Somehow over the years, the lot of them by hobbling along and propping each other up, are getting better.

Sherlock glances back and looks appalled at the way John is smiling. "Oh no, you're going to romanticise this horrible in the blog, aren't you?"

John just laughs.


	8. 17: Skull

**17: Skull**

He'd only come in to have his tonsils out and here he is in the dead of night helping the ballsiest girl he's ever met break into the closed ward. Sally has her pyjamas rolled up to the knee above her tennis shoes and torch clenched between her teeth as she wiggles the hairpin in the lock. She looks a lot older than she is.

_I can't get it to pop. Give it some heat _

Greg sighs, but he's not a wholly unwilling accomplice as he reaches down and grasps the padlock. Metal's easy to work with at least, it's not like wood which has a tendency to spontaneously combust- he can just force the heat through it until it's malleable, and mould it back again afterwards.

_Neat_ she nods approvingly, when he pulls the chain links apart. Greg gives a self-conscious sort of grin. It's a bit weird talking in his head, but he has to admit, it's convenient when his throat's still swollen and sore from surgery. Sally says she prefers telepathy anyway- less chance of being eavesdropped on.

_Are you sure there's someone in here? It's covered in dust. _

_I'm telling you, every night, I can hear them. They're stuck or something. It's horrible, and I can't exactly go telling the nurses I'm hearing people's thoughts now, can I? They'd chuck me in the loony bin._

_What if it IS a loon? _Greg wonders, unintentionally transmitting. Sally laughs slightly under her breath.

_Come on, big boy. Or do I have to hold your hand?_

She sticks out a pink tongue at him and then slips through the door, careful of the chain, which is still scalding hot. Greg thinks if she were just a bit older he might be in danger of liking her _like that_. As it is, she sort of impresses him a lot anyway. He follows.

The ward is poorly lit and choked with dust, mainly sawdust from maintenance and repair work at some point abandoned. There are bare wooden joists stuck up from the floor, the start or the skeletal remains of partitions. They look like the ribs of a dead dragon, and the slightly opaque plastic sheeting that hangs rough around the edges looks like sloughed off skin.

_Anything?_ Greg asks.

Sally pads back and forth, head cocked to the side as though she's trying to track a radio signal with her brain, which is very nearly exactly what she is doing.

_It's weird; I could hear it quite well when we came in the door but it's gone very faint suddenly. And… they're happy? I don't know. I can hear laughing _She shifts off behind some of the plastic and all Greg can see is her blurred figure wandering about. Greg lingers, one eye on the door in case anyone comes, although the hallway outside is eerily quiet. Suddenly she stops moving, and there's a pressure in Greg's brain from her- not her voice, but her feelings; sudden sharp pain and deep, deep discomfort. It's like being doused in cold water, enough to make Greg gasp out loud.

"Sally?! Sally! What's wrong?" He thrusts through the plastic, the dust tossing up under his heels in dim ghostly puffs, his heart rabbiting behind his ribs. He has a sense of responsibility- he's the older one; it's his fault if she's hurt.

"Oh god, Greg!"

She's never spoken to him truly before- to his horror, she sounds a little like she's about to cry, and she sounds incredibly young. He spots her at last, with a wave of relief that she's in one piece. Her hands are clasped over her mouth, eyes transfixed on something he can't quite make out behind her.

"It's ok, I'm here, what- Jesus! Oh, Jesus, fuck!"

Sally backs into him unwittingly, her skinny shoulders bumping into his chest and he puts his hands on them to steady them both. She sags a little, unable to look away from the broken hollow in the wall and the grinning _thing_ lolling out of it.

_It's bad; it's bad. It's wrong, it's wrong somehow, it's just wrong. It's in my skin- make it stop!_

The man must have been chained in- perhaps alive. There are rusting manacles around the wrists still pinned to the wall, although the shoulders have rotted and given away, allowing the torso to separate off and slump forward. The face, if it could be called that, of the skull seems to have an obscene leer.

Greg forcibly turns Sally away- she's overwhelmed, not by the sight of the skeleton, but by something else. Something lingering around the room which he can't feel himself except in the tiny twinges of unease he picks up from her by proxy. "We're leaving, come on. Come on."

She's dropped the torch but he's not going to bother to stop and collect it- fuck that. He wants out of the room as soon as physically possible. He raises a hand instead and does something he usually avoids because it's dangerous. The flames leap up in the palm of his hand, and that comforts Greg- he feels armed and stronger.

Together they stumble towards the door- it's swung to behind them after they entered, and the sight of it gives Greg pause. Smeared across the plywood are symbols. He doesn't need to be able to actually read them to know what they are for. Sally puts one cold thin hand into his.

_It got out_


	9. 20: Mistrust

**20: mistrust**

There's a scruffy snub-nosed kid in the wreckage of the restaurant. One of his fingers is missing. He's wrapped it with what looks like a scrap torn from someone's chequered curtains, and it's stopped bleeding, but it could still be the death of him if the dirt gets in.

He's already filthy. Anderson thinks maybe he's been crying, given the way the muck is streaked across his cheeks, but Anderson can't criticize him for that without being a stupendous hypocrite. Besides, he's probably got plenty to cry about too.

They eye each other warily, trying to gauge how much of a threat they are to each other, but as the shell of the restaurant technically lies in neither one of their territories, and another kid makes a welcome change from the terror of the adults roaming the waste of central London, they make a kind of unspoken truce.

Anderson picks about through the mess; scavenges a breadknife, scraps of wood and a plate with only a bit of a crack in it, and calls that a good haul.

"There's water," the finger-less kid says, pointing behind what remains of the bar. Anderson is somewhat suspicious, but on investigation discovers it's true. There's a waterpipe dribbling away there, quite hidden from view under a piece of wood, and the water is neither brackish nor muddy, which is nearly a miracle. He fills all the bottles on his belt and makes a mental note to come back.

"Thanks," he says, recalling belatedly a remnant of civilization. Fingerless sniffs and shrugs. No big deal.

Anderson drinks to ease the knot of hunger in the pit of his stomach and then gestures at the other's hand. "What happened?"

"Grown-ups."

"Bastards."

Anderson squats amongst the broken bricks and pushes them around mindlessly with his fingertips. "They got my friend…" he's suddenly compelled to share. He looks at the other boy, his face going a bit crumpled with loneliness. "You haven't seen her? Short, black. She's a Donavan. Donavan, S. Sally."

The other boy shakes his head, but Anderson didn't expect him to do anything else. He's just looking for the apology in the other boy's eyes- just seeking a tiny reminder that not everyone in the world is foul.

The other boy comes down off of the pile of debris he's been perching on and squats beside Anderson. "If I see her, I'll leave a note," he promises. "By the pipe."

They both know he won't see hide nor hair of Sally, and if he does, it'll be something that he won't be able to tell Anderson about, because Anderson would really rather not know what happens when a teenage girl gets taken away screeching by a group of men, but the token kindness is appreciated.

"Thanks. What's your tag?"

The other hesitates and then pushes his sleeve up to show him his brand. "Lestrade. Batch G. Number 221. You?"

Anderson rolls his arm over. "Anderson, Batch S, 1895. I just go by Anderson."

"I picked 'Greg'."

"I could never choose," Anderson says. "Never felt like a 'Steve' or a 'Shaun'."

"Scott?"

"Nah."

"The Donavan then… was- she was a Batchmate?"

Anderson nods and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. "1899…" he says, and Greg feels sad for them all. All the other G's he grew up with who have vanished, the unknown Sally; himself and the lost boy crouched beside him.

Greg wonders if he should take Anderson back to the den, but he doesn't fully trust him yet. You can't just trust people after all, and it would be probably look suspicious to Anderson anyway. That and the Holmes wouldn't like him bringing strays in. Got a bit of a thing about that. No. It's better to leave it at this for now and talk it over with Watson before making any hasty suggestions.

He's meant to be heading back now, but he stays a bit longer just to be company, watching the sun sink and turn scarlet over the shattered horizon.


	10. 87: Heroine

**87: Heroine**

Conventionally speaking, he's not actually handsome. Molly can see that now that she's got him on the slab.

His face is a bit Gestalt- the sum of the parts is equal to or greater than the sum of the whole, or however the rubric goes. At any rate, picking out the sum of Sherlock's parts and adding them up it seems that the man is, technically, ugly. It's probably because he's dead- no, not actually dead, but drugged up so much that he is practically dead. Like Romeo.

Like their one-sided romance.

Molly only agreed to this because it was a matter of life or death and she loved him. Now she thinks that probably she loves him still, but she might not_ like_ him anymore. Is that even possible? It must be possible. Some families feel like that _constantly_.

Regardless, Sherlock in death is not as good-looking as she had thought. She's seen enough sleeping men and enough dead men to know that this is not the face of a man at rest, all Sunday-morning-cute-and-cosy. His features have that washed-out slackness of sleep that robs him of some of his appeal.

_Weak chin_, she notes, faintly surprised by the fact as she sponges the blood off of him. He has the kind of chin that looks like an arse if you squish it slightly. His skin is loose underneath his jaw- he'll be jowly like a bulldog in old age if he isn't careful. Without the tension of his usual moue of disapproval, his mouth looks overlarge and flaccid. The lower lip protrudes a bit like a toddler's- like he's about to dribble. Massive blunt wedge of a forehead and a face that's rather on the long side. Not quite horsey, but edging towards that.

Molly puts the sponge down and rinses her fingers. Somehow noticing that Sherlock isn't actually flawless like her stupid crush keeps telling her is incredibly refreshing. "Arse-chin, Molly Hooper," she tells herself as she tips the bloodied water out own the sink. She catches her reflection in the stainless steel wall, blurred but recognisable. "If you ever see him alive again after he walks out of that door; if you catch yourself breathless at the sight of him, you just remember that the man has an arse-chin."

She touches her own with damp fingers thoughtfully. It's not what convention would call 'beautiful', but it's equally not an arse. It's something.

She's probably only fixating on this because she's angry with him. She hasn't seen John yet. She's not sure she can bear to- he's such a nice man. He's always been a good friend to Sherlock, and kind to Molly, with his own brand of quiet pride. When she tries to imagine how he must be doing now, all she can think of is the dog with the broken back legs that she once found. It had been hit by a car and was dragging itself along- in horrible pain- but just unable to simply lie down and die. It'd been determined to get _somewhere_ but ultimately had ended up going nowhere. She'd cried her eyes out pitying it. The thought of pitying John Watson like she'd once pitied a handicapped dog is so unpleasant on so many levels that it makes her feel physically sick.

Molly wipes her hair back from her face. "Keep it together, Hooper," She chides herself, but the regrets are already digging under her skin.

"I'm a total bitch. Don't you even dare borrow his excuses- this is all wrong." It's for the greater good; it's to keep people safe- Oh it's all that and more. Fine. Maybe that's the logic of it, but it's still horrendous. It's war. Horrendous things happen in war. Twelve people at least are already really, actually, cold and dead.

It's not war. It's … well; it's not a war, is it? It's not for queen and country and because of the threat of genocide and global conquest and all that. It's two very smart men playing out a personal vendetta, one of who happens to be a criminal psychopath. The other's morals are pretty grey too.

She checks his sluggish pulse and his breathing again. He's stable. "You are such a bastard," she says out loud, but she's too worn out to be anything other than pseudo-factual. Somehow even at his absolute worst, Sherlock doesn't manage to anger her. Hurt, yes, but not anger. There's stupid affection for you.

Molly dabs the remains of the tacky blood-and-water residue off of his skin with a hand towel, tidying him up the way she does a corpse. The actions are too routine to her for it to feel overly intimate or morbid or weird. His eyelids flutter slightly as she palms the towel across his soggy curls. Corpses move sometimes too- twitch or make little noises. If it weren't for the puffs of breath that tickle her wrists, he would have little to distinguish him from her other inmates.

Still, he must be close to waking soon. It's been over an hour.

There's a soft noise behind her, of the outer door of the morgue opening. She puts down the towel and turns, although she knows who it is already.

Mycroft looks as unflappable as ever, although he does give a little pause to see Sherlock spread out as a corpse on her post-mortem table. It had sort of been automatic procedure to do so, and would have helped if anyone other than the Brtish government had decided to wander in.

"He's still out; what did you give him?"

Mycroft, either because he genuinely disregards her or because he's purposefully being an arse, just gives her a little look and fiddles with his phone instead of answering her properly.

"He'll come around soon," he says eventually, sounding like he's being saying variations of that theme for years, and in all contexts it could be taken in. Molly wonders if he isn't, under the frustration and frowning, slightly enjoying this. The secrecy; the fact that Sherlock needs his help.

Molly doesn't know what to say to him, so she says nothing, and they wait.

Sherlock's eyes open, and the life and control floods back into his face. He sits up slowly, every movement careful and deliberate- he doesn't want to make a fool of himself by falling off of the table or mistakenly groping at thin air. His gaze flicks around, taking in detail- Molly, Mycroft, his ruined scarf bagged and ready to be disappeared, the sponge in the sink, the dampness of his hair, the morgue.

"Everything as planned?" he asks.

His voice is thick, a little growly from the forced sleep perhaps, or perhaps he's actually emotional underneath that mechanical cool. Molly can never tell. He coughs and takes a deep breath.

"Yes," Mycroft confirms, "We'll depart as soon as you are ready. Molly fetch him a coffee- black-"

"Two sugars, I know."

_Ordered around in your own morgue, Hooper. Why can't you ever just tell these Holmes' where to stick it?_

She gets the coffee anyway, one for herself and one for Mycroft only after heavy deliberation. She'd like to not bother. Make a point and leave him out. It'd be a tiny petty victory, but it would be _hers._ It would still be small and petty. She gazes into the bottom of the cup with a longing to be the kind of person who wouldn't feel bad about spitting in someone's drink. He'd deserve it. John probably would. No. He wouldn't. He wouldn't waste time being passive aggressive, he'd just give him a black eye.

Molly gives a tiny huff and makes him a cup of tea, unmolested and settles for deliberately stewing it a bit too long.

Mycroft, being Mycroft, probably won't deign to touch it anyway.

The men are not talking when she returns with the mugs, which doesn't surprise her. Sherlock takes his with one of those rare parabola smiles of his. "Thank you," he mouths more than says. Mycroft accepts his with finger and thumb like she's offered him a dead rodent, and places it on the side.

"I'll see about transport," he announces, and clips out the door.

"Did you spit in it? Ah, no, you didn't."

"No," Molly says, annoyed with herself and with him, and frustrated and upset but unwilling to show it. "I really wanted to, but," she pauses, blushing slightly and trying to break out of his gaze, but as always, he's simply too interesting to look at. The man resurrected from the dead.

"But I wouldn't do something like that."

Sherlock is looking at her. She swallows, but doesn't look away because for the lucky third time, he's looking at her and she thinks he sees her. Not a deduction, not mere visuals, but an honest look at Molly Hooper, woman.

And for the third time ever, she can see something in him that speaks to her more clearly than any voiced sentiment. It makes her feel good. It makes her feel like for once she is winning and it's a fair and justified win against an unfair and frequently shitty world.

Sherlock glances at the coffee, at her one last time, and then gives a weary smirk that is more habit than meaning. He sips.

Mycroft returns. "The car is here. We need to go," he says and at some point in this brief distraction Sherlock manages to tank his coffee. He puts the empty cup at his elbow and gives a feline stretch.

"Drink your tea first, Mycroft. Don't be rude."

What follows is a silent battle of wills. Mycroft gives Sherlock a suspicious look and then casts another in Molly's direction. Fortunately for her, her default expression is one of slightly pained innocence. Sherlock nudges the cup closer to his brother. "Drink up."

To Mycroft's credit, he doesn't grimace even though the mortuary tea is cheap and nasty even by Molly's much less fastidious standards. "Thank you, Molly," he says stiffly, and Molly feels deliciously wicked as she collects the cup and tells him he's welcome. Sherlock pushes himself up onto his feet, looks ruefully at his scarf, his dirty coat, the morgue. All the things that as a dead man he's going to have to leave behind him. Molly watches as he closes himself off.

"Bye then," she says, and can't help loving him all over again, only this time it's daggered with fear, regret and for the first time, the sense of a little mutual respect. Sherlock leans down almost absent-mindedly and kisses her cheek.

"Goodbye, Molly. Be careful."

Somehow he manages to make it sound like the most sincere apology she's ever had.


End file.
